


At the Delta by the Lethe

by Khadgarfield



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Celibacy implied then demolished, Character Death, Loosely Canon-Compliant (emphasis on loosely), M/M, Mentor/Student dymanic, Non-Chronological, Oral Sex, Poorly Negotiated Sexual Relationship, ROTLK but make it from uthers POV and super gay, References to past heterosexuality, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, There's a lot of angst packed in here, semi-unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29876688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khadgarfield/pseuds/Khadgarfield
Summary: It's hard to remember all the details, but Uther does his best.
Relationships: Uther the Lightbringer/Arthas Menethil
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13





	At the Delta by the Lethe

**Author's Note:**

> hi and shout out to the like 3 people who will read this b/c its light on porn and rarepair central lmao.

**…1…**

The chapel was Uther's favorite place.

It was a small family parish, erected under the auspices of the King of Lordaeron himself, and admittedly it was nowhere near as ostentatious as the newly restored Stormwind Cathedral. To Uther, though, allowed ground was still hallowed ground - and there was something to be said about the familiarity of the place. Uther appreciated the comfort of well-loved incense. Of a space in where his troubles sat lighter on his shoulders, and the sun poured thickly through leaded glass and submerged him in a tide of repose. The brightness reflecting of smooth grey stone soothed uncountable thoughts, which passed in endless cycles through his head.

Uther sat on the hardwood pew, his shoulders sloped in relaxation, and his mind reflecting the presence of the light like a surface of mirrored glass. Beside him, King Terenas was rigid, like a newly strung bow - his urge for formal conduct in all circumstance had erected a wall between himself, and the respite of contemplation. Uther noted this quality, examined its edges for a moment, and then let the thought be carried away by the springtime breeze, whispering through aisles and over the heads of a congregation deep in prayer. He turned his gaze from away from the King, over the front of the chapel where the Archbishop stood to deliver his liturgy, and sweeping his eyes up to the airy arching vault above the altar. The rose window on the north wall sparkled in the morning sun, and the blades of pink and blue light that cut through the dim and glinted off dust motes hanging on the air. Uther sighed, and followed the map of illumination to its terminus – the back of a blond head, a teenaged boy sitting demurely with his head bowed in prayer.

Or no. Not bowed. Not praying. Not even sitting so demurely - Arthas had his face turned just so, with his attention fixed on one of the opened windows at the wing of the chapel.

Uther's brow furrowed. He glanced to the window. There was a little grey sparrow just beyond it, bouncing and shimmying along the ledge. Uther looked back to Arthas, needing to squint because of the way the light refracted on his hair like a halo. The prince of Lordaeron emitted a blurring radiance, reminding Uther of those hazy clouds that bloomed white and blinding at the base of a waterfall. Like the dawn light reflecting off a field covered in snow.

 _Arthas_ , Uther thought, in a way that cracked the tranquility in his countenance. _Pray with the rest of us!_

Uther was startled when Arthas’ eyes fluttered, as though he had sensed the sharpness of his thoughts from across the rows of pews. Uther's guts writhed when the young man stiffened his posture, and turned his head a few more degrees to glance over his shoulder. Even from this distance, Uther could see his eyes were disarmingly green - the kind of green one sees in the bottom of gaping mountain lakes, translucent and preternatural in its intensity. 

_“Pay attention!”_ Uther mouthed at him, cheeks warming in annoyance, or perhaps in embarrassment at being caught just as distracted. Arthas, still twisted in his seat, studied him from between the rest of churchgoers still in worship. He blinked, thinking for a moment, and then let a broad, lazy grin spread across his face. He raised a hand in a pompous little wave - Uther felt a pinch of anger, but refused to think of scolding him here, in this holy place. Instead, he simply glared, and his irreverent prince turned back around in his seat. He bent his head down, in a gesture of faux humility.

Uther huffed.

Arthas was just a rebellious teenager, he told himself stiffly. Nothing more, nothing less. Though he had never had any great love for the numinous, and had only ever shown Uther selfishness and disdain, anyone in the whole of Lordaeron could see that the boy was destined to walk a path of light. He had the look of it, after all, and the charisma, and the fortunate condition of being born to a family of great status, and wealth, and benevolence.

Uther wasn’t sure when he would realise this for himself. He tried not to consider that he never would. As Arthas grew older, Uther knew that soon his job would be to become the young man’s dutiful guide. His _patient_ guide. Like a psychopomp guides the spirits of the dead to the other side, so too would Uther guide the prince through the course of his life. However obstinate Arthas could be, Uther believed

(had to believe)

He was a worthy charge, and as he would grow to love the light he would grow to respect Uther, in time. 

Uther tried and struggled to return to that placid state he had been in before, though - he found the tranquility utterly churned by the irritation still prickling the backs of his hands. He found himself looking back to Arthas repeatedly. Checking in to ensure that when the prayer was closed and the service resumed, he was still paying attention. For all intents and purposes, it looked as though he was. Uther took comfort in a simple platitude, then. One that made it possible for him to let this go in the same way he had let go of Terenas being too stiff under his crown to truly commune with the sacred, or the divine.

 _He will grow out of it._ He said to himself. _He_ will _grow out of it._

He has to.

**…2…**

Arthas had cheered since taking up arms against the invading orcs, but he still seemed troubled during moments he thought Uther wasn’t looking.

As the wintertime loomed before them, he grew more introspective still – an interesting development, considering he had never been a particularly introspective person before. Sometimes, when they sat together and discussed strategy, or when they ate dinner in the field with the rest of the men, Uther would sense his focus withdrawing. His brow would crease into a shallow furrow, and other voices would begin to overtake his in the conversation.

Like with most things he observed, though, Uther pretended not to notice. He expected that if Arthas _did_ want to talk about what was troubling him, and thought that Uther could in some way help to counsel, he would come to him directly and ask. It took a while, longer than Uther had initially thought, but sure enough as the summer grew aged and passed its reign to the fall, he did exactly that.

“Sir Uther,” Arthas said, interrupting him as he sat in meditation one evening. “I found you.”

“Indeed, you did lad. What’s wrong?”

Uther had found a place to be alone, as he often did when a battle was done. Today, that place was a spot on the bank of a stream that flowed near their campsite. He had not expected to be interrupted here, or he would have chosen somewhere else – it had been his intention to take a moment and reconcile, to commune with the simple virtue of mundane and natural things, and clear his mind of death, and hatred, and fighting. The evening was closing in quickly, though, and already a chill breeze cut the warmth of the dusk-time light. The water of the river flowed in silent currents, and as Arthas approached the surface bore an echo of his face. His watery double glinted with fractal shards, taking on the hue of dusk and reminding Uther of embers from a bonfire.

“No need to sound so concerned,” Arthas smiled, the same smile he gave to his men when he needed them to see him as a friend, instead of a leader. It looked strangely distorted, on his reflection in the stream. “I just came to see if you would have dinner with the rest of us this evening. And make sure you aren’t too far from camp, when the sun goes down.”

It remained unsaid, but the lands out this way were still very much plagued by stray rebels and all other manner of terrible, bloodthirsty things. A single victory, even a dozen victories, did not necessarily render the place safe - here was no telling what might happen to a man out here on his own, after darkness fell like a blind over the land.

Uther looked up from the water, and regarded the man standing over him in the flesh. Backlit by the setting sun it was hard to make him out properly – he was shadowed, like a dark shape in Uther’s vision, and the luminance that curled around his edges buried his details in light.

“I think I can fare well enough on my own, Arthas. You can start eating without me.”

“Are you sure?” Arthas arched a heavy eyebrow, his expression just exaggerated enough to make out. “The men made up a special meal this evening, to celebrate the festival.”

“Oh,” Uther had forgotten the date, it seemed. “Hallows end.”

The day when the veil between this life, and the world beyond, was thinnest.

Uther hadn’t been particularly good at tracking the days since they began the campaign – in war, every day was essentially the same. Arthas, however, had been quite strict with tracking places, and dates, and even the weather patterns on their travels. It was an expression of his need to control all variables, a rare beneficial manifestation of his stubborn, borderline neurotic, nature, though in Uther’s opinion his overplanning did tend to make him far too confident from time to time. Uther liked to think of himself as more fluid, and less concerned with managing details like that – he preferred to take things as they came, to improvise decisively in the moment, and adapt like a river flowed around a hefty stone. In this way, Uther supposed, they complimented each other. They completed a whole. Such an offset had been so integral to their victories so far, and it was nice to finally stumble into some synergy with his pupil after so, so long.

“Perhaps I will come to eat with everyone then,” Uther mused. “In half an hour or so.”

“So the promise of food can sway you, but my diplomacy cannot?”

A small grin quirked his tone, and Arthas shifted his weight onto his left hip. His body blocked the glare of the sun, and Uther could observe that Arthas was only half-clad in his armour. His pauldrons were nowhere to be seen. The young man looked weary, but as handsome as ever - the last year had seen him grow taller, and wider, than he had been as a teenager, and his face had taken on the flattering angles of adulthood. His golden hair, uncut now for many moons, spilled over the slightly grubby plate of his cuirass. Uther never understood why he didn’t tie it back, and instead let it be sullied by flecks of mud and blood. It was quite unseemly for a prince, even one who preferred to be called ‘commander’ by his men, and ‘Arthas’ by strangers. Uther though, could only ever see him as a prince. A prince of a slightly petulant ilk, who still seemed unsettled to be looked at too sternly, for too long. When Uther did not reply to his jab, Arthas looked like a twelve-year-old caught stealing bread from the kitchens again. His eyes slid away, and Uther could see clearly enough now to note that his cheeks coloured, underneath the grime of the day.

“I’m joking,” He said, gaze coming to settle on the sleek, swift flowing river. Uther sighed.

“You’re right though,” He said placidly. “A joke can conceal a kernel of truth. I do indeed miss the comforts of a festival, and Hallows End was always my favorite. The thought of Pumpkin pie does hold _some_ sway.”

“Really?” Arthas’s eyebrows arched and he looked back to Uther with wide, surprised eyes. “You have the air of a man who doesn’t care for frivolous things. I assumed anything fun was of little interest to you.”

“Why have fun when you can pray?” Uther asked, completely deadpan.

He could tell that Arthas didn’t know if this was serious or not. The look of puzzlement on his face actually made Uther chuckle out loud, and it was the first time he had felt amusement in _months_.

“That was also a joke,” he informed him. “Mostly. The food shared during the harvest festivals happens to remind me of my childhood.”

It seemed like such a long time ago, when he had been taking those first tentative steps down the path of the Light, but also it seemed like yesterday. Uther wasn’t even very old, compared to men like King Terenas, or the Archbishop. It only seemed like yesterday that Uther was as old as Arthas was, and the prince himself was an infant in his mother's arms. Yet somehow, both of their journeys had brought them both here.

A strange miracle, really.

“Ah. Right. See, I wasn’t sure.” Arthas said, and brought a hand up to rub the back of his neck. “Jaina and I used to joke about it so often, that it was never clear whether or not you _did_ pray for fun.”

“Oh, I do pray for fun.” Uther assured him. “But I like to do other things, too.”

Arthas’ gaze lingered on him for a moment, and Uther thought he saw something unfamiliar stirring deep in his eyes. The longer the look went on, the more it became Uther’s turn to feel self-conscious. Had Arthas never heard him laugh before? Or jest? That couldn’t be possible, they had known each other for so long, but the youth was looking at him as though he hadn’t, and wasn’t sure what he should make of it, now. Uther’s smile faded. Arthas’ too. An odd awkwardness blossomed between them.

_Light._

Uther broke the tension with a soft, quiet cough, just loud enough to jerk Arthas back from staring into the abyss of his thoughts. The prince shook himself. He glanced around at the scenery, as though trying to remind himself where he was standing.

“This is a nice spot.” He said, after a moment. “Do you mind if I join you, and wait?”

Did he not intend to let Uther journey back alone after nightfall? Uther wasn’t sure if he should be flattered by his concern, or offended by his lack of faith - If there was anything in these lands that Uther couldn’t defend himself against, then Arthas of all people would be of no help.

“Please do.” he said anyway, without giving any indication that the request had surprised him.

Arthas nodded, and edged closer. He dropped down onto the grass at Uther's side, and began to unbuckle his heavy breastplate. Uther could sense something churning in his mind still, an eddying tumult of thought flowing faster and more ceaseless than the stream they sat beside. When Uther closed his eyes, he thought he could smell woodsmoke coming off him. The smell of hay. Of leather. His sweat. It was a profoundly enjoyable perfume that made the nape of Uther's neck tingle.

And then, quite out of nowhere, regret gripped his heart like a vice and made his eyes snap open.

Clairsentience. A strange gift from the light. It wasn’t something he had much control over, and it wasn’t a blessing he would have picked to have for himself. Uther looked hard upon the face of the young man sitting beside him in puzzlement, watching as Arthas stared into both of their reflections on the water like he was looking through a window into his soul. The fist in Uther’s chest loosened, melting into a dull, empathetic ache, and he thought briefly of a face he recognized but didn’t recall long enough to place.

He felt it wasn’t his own thought. He was fairly sure.

“You're troubled today.” Uther said aloud, before he could stop himself.

“Of course I’m troubled,” Arthas answered diplomatically. “My people are in danger. That’s why we’re here, to protect them as best we can.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Arthas sighed. He dropped his breastplate to the grass, and began to pluck his linen undershirt from the places it was sticking to his skin.

“Ok fine, you got me. I was just thinking. Today is Hallow’s End, is it not? Which means that this time last year, Jaina and I were still together,” He paused his preening for a moment, in a surprisingly candid posture. The neck of his tunic gaped to reveal much of his well-formed chest. Uther could see him chewing his next words, wondering if he should say whatever it was that was pressing on his mind. The desire to unburden his conscience must have won out, because he continued and resumed rearranging himself as though he had never even hesitated.

“We were lovers, actually.” he said, too easily. Too casually. “One year ago, tonight.”

“Oh,” Uther was blindsided by this information. “Okay?”

Uther hadn’t expected that of all things, it was _Jaina_ which still haunted him. He hadn’t heard Arthas speak her name for months on end. Not only this, but Uther hadn’t realised that Jaina and Arthas’ relationship had been like that. Certainly, he had known they were courting, but he hadn’t assumed it was consummated considering they were unmarried. Uther had believed once, maybe even hoped, that Arthas would end up wedded to the girl. They were a good match politically, and she would have been good for him on an emotional front, but Arthas had an unfortunate tendency to be ignorant of what would be good for him. Suddenly, it made sense to Uther why Arthas had been acting so strangely. He wondered if Arthas’ desire to throw himself into strife and war was motivated by their separation. Perhaps he was missing a soothing touch, a lover’s bed, or a willing kiss no longer given?

Uther had no way to gauge this. Intimacy of the flesh was still a deep, unfamiliar magic to him, and so it was with an unsettled nervousness that he watched Arthas set his jaw, and comb his fingers idly through the ends of his hair.

“It’s not okay, really,” Arthas said, and the seafoam green in his eyes reflected the twilight seeping through the river. Even cloaked in shadow, he possessed an ethereal radiance. The kind of glimmer that Angels would be in envy of. “I don’t think I was ready.”

This was the second time Uther had heard Arthas say he wasn’t ready in his life. On that first occasion, Uther had had something honest to say, but here and now there were no words to either quantify his own emotions, nor provide Arthas with solace. He thought he could remind him of his duties, remind him that as a prince, he would someday need to marry and sire children and eventually be king. Perhaps if he was missing Jaina, she would be gracious enough to take him back?

Uther also knew, though, that he was a man of the cloth. As such, he had no real right to speak on such things. Arthas had always expressed unease about the prospect of marriage, besides. He had never said as much to Uther’s face, or for that matter to anyone's face, but Uther wasn’t stupid and he could read between lines. That said, Uther also was not arrogant man - he did not pretend to know the true extent of Arthas’ inner machinations, and certainly he did not know of severing the communion that called one fleshy vehicle to another. As such, he did not want to give advice that would prove inappropriate.

“Life will keep happening to you regardless,” He said instead, quite non-comitally. “Even if the river isn’t ready, it will inevitably reach the sea.”

**…3…**

It was too dark, these days – the nights seemed to drag on forever and the cold worked its grip around Uther's body as he lay alone in his bed. His little room in the parsonage did not have a fireplace, and even under the weight of blankets and furs he could not shake the chill off his shoulders. Was it the frost that left him so frozen tonight, or was it something else? Something else that made him feel so lonely, and hollow, and old? As the wind billowed loudly, knocking knuckles against his window, Uther knew he couldn’t just lie here staring into the darkness. He kept thinking he could see the shadows pooling in the corners of his room, taking the shape of a stranger he knew far too well, and no matter how often he called on the light there were some places in his heart that could not be illuminated right now. His palms broke into a sweat, whenever he came close to thinking on them.

Uther slid out of bed, lit an oil lamp, and dressed in the warmest clothes and cloak he could find. The walk to the chapel was a short one, but when he edged down the stairs and slipped out the back door of the building, he found the air outside was even colder than he could have imagined. It hit him like a punch to the chest, his exhalation a puff of glittering silver in the night. The moon, half waning, was cloaked in clouds, and shadows fell long over naked trees and lown hills of snow.

The chapel was familiar, even in the inky night, but the candles burning in the windows gave it an eerie orange glow. As Uther strode down the gravel path to the stoop, the wind picked up, and the moon was stolen away behind a passing cloud. An eye blinking closed.

His entry to the chapel seemed to startle someone, already inside and changing the flowers at the altar. They had withered to brown husks in the cold. It took Uther a moment to recognise who it was - Uther acknowledged him with a curt nod, as he swung the door closed in his wake.

“Gavinrad. Apologies for interrupting.”

“No interruption,” The paladin said, dropping the bunch of dead flowers onto the altar. A brother in the order of the Silver Hand, Gavinrad had made a habit of caring for the chapel grounds, since the late Archbishop’s passing. “But your presence concerns me further still. You also find no rest tonight?”

“No rest for the wicked,” said Uther. “And so, no rest for me.”

His brother in the silver hand, always far gentler than Uther was, and far more inclined to give kind counsel, gave Uther a look, then. It was long and sorrowful, even in the flickering candlelight, which obscured much of the nuance of his features.

“It’s not your fault,” He said, after a moment, and Uther became fiercely aware of the cold again. Of the wind knocking on the stained-glass windows that once, had cast flowers of colour over the shoulders of a striking young man. Now those windows were dark, staring into the depths of the night and seeing only terrible things.

“I don’t think it’s my fault,” Uther lied, taking a few steps towards the front of the chapel before edging into one of the pews. “At least, not insofar as I wielded the sword that did it.”

Uther had been the one who wielded the student, however. Uther had been the one who had formed him, like a potter wrought a goblet from the earthen clay. His goblet had been beautiful, overflowing even, but in its depths, there was only poison. Most regrettably of all, Uther had not been the one forced to drink from such a cup.

At least not yet.

“You take this too personally,” Gavinrad comforted him. “you can’t take sole responsibility for what he has done.”

Uther hummed, not resisting his words, even though in truth all he could see was connections. The last few weeks had seen him replay every moment in his head, every decision, and turn of event, and the progress that had led them through each like beads on a rosary necklace made up an entire object greater than the sum of its parts. Uther remembered the times he had taught Arthas to hold a hammer. The times he had declined to answer his questions, about the nature of good an evil. At the time, the answer had seemed so obvious to Uther that even a fourteen-year-old child could have grasped it. Maybe he should have taken the time to explain.

Or maybe Arthas should have taken the time to ask more clearly. To be more honest about what he had wanted. Uther remembered another moment, with a pinch of emotion he couldn’t name. eyes like the universe, lips like a peach. A shaking hand pressed questioningly over his breast. He remembered the fear, multiplying between them, the possibilities they were both too cowardly to ask. Or maybe he was the coward, in that instance. For not helping him when finally, after so long, he had reached out.

_Will your love keep me warm, in my grave?_

“He was your favorite,” Gavinrad said, almost resentfully, as he shuffled down the aisle towards where Uther sat and lowered himself into the pew beside him. “Though I don’t know why. And you were his. I do understand why you would take this so personally but again. It’s not your fault he became a monster.”

“Was I his favorite?”

Uther wasn’t so sure. It was humiliating to think that once upon a time he had thought that too. Now though, he wasn’t sure Arthas had ever really cared about anything. Had he always been an empty boy? A broken child? Was he a monster, or a demon? Uther spent long nights, pondering, at which place the juncture might have been visible all this time – if he had looked a little harder, would his fingers have found the place where his mask met his skin? Uther had held his face countless times. Ran his touch over the contours of his neck, and ears, and jaw. He had felt the sweet curl of those lips against the meat of his palm, and even the points of his teeth, but Arthas had never bitten him and that mask had never slipped. Or maybe it had, a couple of times. Maybe it had, over and over, And Uther hadn't noticed because he hadn’t wanted to see it.

Maybe this wouldn’t have happened, if he had just opened his eyes.

Or maybe it was always unavoidable. Even if Uther had loved him harder, maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference.

**…4…**

Arthas didn’t want to talk about it.

Arthas never wanted to talk about anything.

At first, Uther had shown him the patience he thought he had needed, and heard the gist of why he was acting so strange from Terenas himself. Arthas’ breakup with Jaina seemed to have surprised everyone, and Uther too might have been surprised by it, if he had ever given Arthas’ personal life much thought. Uther had always been more concerned with his spiritual development, and duly cognizant of the fact that in all his years Arthas had never _willingly_ gone to the chapel to contemplate, he thought now was probably a moment for him to intervene.

He found the young man sitting in a pew by the altar, in the circle of frosty light that spilled through the tremendous rose window. It was chilly in the chapel, and Arthas looked resplendent dressed in leather and soft furs. Even though the candles lining the perimeter of the space constituted a chorus of tiny infernos, they were delicate and shivering and hardly enough to cast anything resembling heat. Leftover holly from Winter’s Veil was overflowing from vases that lined the alcoves. It gave the air a faint earthy scent, like the deep woods as winter rolled into spring.

“Arthas,” Uther stepped beside him, groping in the pocket of his tunic for the pear he had brought as a bribe, to buy his co-operation. Arthas had been at vigil since dawn, and likely had not yet had breakfast, so Uther concluded there was a high chance that this might actually work.

“Mm?”

“Unlike you to throw yourself into prayer.”

“I’m not praying,” he said simply. “I’m thinking.”

“Same thing, if you do it in a church.”

Arthas’s eyes flickered to him, as Uther dropped into the seat at his side. His annoyance at the intrusion was obvious, but for once he didn’t retort. Uther sighed, and offered the man the pear he held in his hand.

“Thinking about Jaina?” he asked – a reasonable guess, given the circumstances.

“Why would I waste time thinking about an ex-girlfriend, Uther?”

“Well, I don’t know, boy. It seems like a popular pastime for young men.”

This nearly made the prince laugh, though it morphed quickly into a sneer. He accepted the fruit Uther was offering, but did not bite into it. He clutched it in his hand instead, nails digging into the flesh as he turned his face to the altar at the front of the chapel.

“Fine,” he conceded. “Yes, I’m thinking about Jaina.”

“What about her?” Uther pressed, only to receive no answer. He tried again.

“You know, no one really knows why-”

“Maybe because it’s not anyone's business!” Arthas snapped. “Least of all you.”

Oh.

Okay then.

Uther bristled to hear him raise his tone like that. He was accustomed to Arthas’ short temper, yes, but as the he grew into adulthood and the chasm of status that divided them narrowed, it became more and more difficult to endure his disrespect.

“Maybe don’t talk to me like that,” Uther said. “When I’m trying to help.”

“You think you can help me?” Arthas’ tone was mocking - he turned to regard him with a glare that could have frozen crops in the heart of a Westfall summer. “You, a paladin, responsible for nothing but strategy and prayer? It's not like you have a family, Uther. It's not like you have citizens, and servants, and a thousand other faceless people who all seem to know your name. No one ever asked _you_ to marry and have children, I’m sure.”

Light.

Arthas _was_ prickly today. The kind of prickly that pierced even a stoic, sharply, and deep. Typically, Uther might have chastised him for such an outburst, or if he was a less temperate man he might have clipped him sharply on the back of the head. Light knew he _wanted_ to strike Arthas, sometimes, for his brashness and for his cruelty, but Uther knew there was no dignity in violence in a sacred place any more than there was dignity in letting himself be broken by someone who was probably in emotional distress. Uther swallowed the sting, gritted his fist on the cuff of his robe, and called on the light for patience. For compassion. For insight into whatever it was that was troubling the boy so. The flare of anger that had shot through him receded, soothed by a rising current of peace. He exhaled, brows furrowing, and tried to piece the fragments of his reply together as best he could.

“I have my burdens,” He said simply, “As do all men. Mine are spiritual, but burdens nonetheless. I’m sorry that you seem to think your burden is the people who love you.”

“The people who love me?” Arthas laughed properly now, but it was terse, and high, and almost hysterical under the silky haughtiness of his tongue. “I didn’t _ask_ for such love. I didn’t _ask_ for the expectations thrust upon me. I didn’t _ask_ for that adoration to be so conditional, on my ability to serve everyone except myself. To be a husband. A father. A king of Lordaeron.”

And then, quite suddenly, Uther understood what was going on.

“Oh, I see,” he said gently. “This has nothing really to do with Jaina, does it?”

Arthas looked startled, for a moment, to be perceived so clearly. He scowled, cheeks darkening, and turned his nose upwards away from his tutor.

“What else would it be about,” He snipped.

It was a good question. What _specifically_ was it that had prompted this funk. Uther furrowed his brow, trying to read him, trying to pare back his grim expression, his tense muscles, the throbbing vein visible in the line of his jaw. His bones would be the most prophetic, etched with all the markings of his history, but unfortunately his bones could not be bared. He was able to grasp at the edges of something, though - The sense of a cool breeze whipping through long hair. The sound of crunching snow. Uther felt a lurch in his belly, followed by a sudden impact. A heavy body crumpling and making the kind of sound that should not be allowed to be uttered by animal or by man and Uther winced, drawing back from his insight as though burned by it. He regretted trying to pry, tried to forget the revelation even as he remembered the name of the creature. An ironic title, given the circumstances.

_Invincible._

And what exactly was a dead horse doing, occupying Arthas’ uneasy mind?

“You know what? Don’t worry about it,” Uther shook himself, swallowing the thick spit at the back of his throat. He turned his head to look to the horizon, visible through the window on the side of the church. Slanted shafts of sunlight cut through the dim, striking his face and blinding him, but he did not look away from the brightness. Uther rarely waivered in his resolution, and there was a certain relief in the bleached white glow that erased the world beyond his consciousness completely.

They sat for a while, in silence, until the sun began to sink and the light shifted from Uther's face to his breast. Eventually, Uther began to sense Arthas’ defenses dropping, his irritation unfurling to reveal a weary, sulky young man. And then, much to Uther's surprise, he spoke.

“I think it’s the worst feeling in the universe.” His voice was cool. Bitter. “When you realise that someone loves you.”

“... What?”

Arthas continued, as though he hadn’t heard Uther’s question.

“I think, you feel panic in that moment. You feel terror, because of the possibility that you let that person down. Theres nothing that compares to watching someone who has loved you, someone who has looked to you their whole life for guidance, suffering. There's nothing that compares to the pain of when they look to you again for mercy.”

“Jaina looked to you for... mercy?”

Uther was dreadfully confused.

Arthas scoffed, too lost in his thoughts to explain.

“No,” he said, “of course not. But I fear that someday she will. I fear that someday, my people will. I fear it, because I have seen it, and it is the most harrowing of things... You realise in that moment you really are powerless. You realise in that moment that you are just as helpless as they are, just as weak and broken, and it _hurts_ so fucking bad but you have no way to convey you can’t do anything to stop... to fix...”

He trailed off, letting his musings hang in the silence for a moment before he inhaled, and turned to face Uther with those endless green eyes.

“How could you e _ver_ know what that’s like, Uther? When no one, and I mean this in the most envious and compassionate of ways, loves you?”

The question stung anyway, and Uther disliked how his look made his skin prickle. He schooled his face neutral, and responded calmy even though in truth, he was shaken to his core. The sound of that great beast breaking seemed to echo between his ears. The scent of snow. The illusionary sensation of wind in his hair felt biting now, and he hadn’t noticed. It took every ounce of strength in him to not waiver.

Arthas needed him to be stalwart. A rock. And so he would be.

“You would be surprised what I do and don’t know, boy. But by the light I pray, may I never find out.”

**…5…**

Unimaginable.

That’s the only word for it.

Which must be why it feels so much like a dream, to turn away from him, a familiar man grasped in a fist of fury that Uther had only ever seen glimpses of before.

Arthas did always have a fiery streak. He always was a sore loser. Arthas was stubborn, and tended towards tunnel vision, but Uther had always been able to console him in the past and even in spite of his failings Uther had loved him dearly, with all the ardent love of a protector for his charge, and more. Maybe he had been foolish, to think that love would be enough to teach him to reason, or maybe he had been too assured of his own abilities. Was it his own arrogance, that had led him to think he could temper a spirit that surged like a riptide against a current of calm.

Jaina Proudmore, with clever eyes and a grounded bearing, seemed just as horrified by the event as he was. Her face was bloodless as they walked from the city in silence, and her grip on her staff was so hard that Uther thought it might snap in two. Distantly, he thought he could sense thoughts and emotions emanating off her – the warmth of a man’s body. The longing that Uther thought he recognized in himself, at times. He swallowed the nausea churning in his belly, and tried to gird himself against unwanted visions. Insights into memories that would only make things worse.

Why would the light want to show him this, but deny him insight into anything that _truly_ mattered?

The two of them retreated numbly, for a while, reeling in the pulse racing, palm sticking intensity of the exchange they had left behind. Uther was thankful that he had someone with him. Some reason for him to remain composed, and dignified, and to not simply collapse against a tree and dissolve into trembles that might rattle his teeth in his jaws.

The woodland near Stratholme was familiar, and peaceful. The ambience was padded by leaves rustling, and wood creaking, though the lively sound of creatures scurrying among leaf litter and branches was chillingly absent. Dappled sunlight poured overhead. Though it was a warm day, Uther felt deathly cold in the confides of his armour. The sensation was strangely akin to that of shock, upon receiving a debilitating injury on a battlefield.

He kept playing the conversation over and over again in his head.

_Glad you could make it Uther._

A flare of anger. Or was it despair? A desire to help, and a realization that he was unable. Uther should have seized him where he stood. Should have torn him down, and shaken him, and so what if he might have been put to a sword for it - it wouldn’t have been the first time he had wanted to manhandle the boy and put the fear of gods in his eyes.

But no. That wasn’t rational, or sensible, or kind. Uther knew he couldn’t let his anger or disappointment sour him, couldn’t let himself become impulsive lest he do something he regret. He had to keep faith that Arthas would turn back, even if the coldness of betrayal had burned him when Uther turned away.

Light.

Uther had turned away.

He had turned his back on the person who he was sworn to protect. Why?

“What he was asking,” Jaina interrupted his thoughts. “It was monstrous. We were right to leave, weren't we?”

“Of course we were,” Uther responded gruffly. “Arthas is an impulsive man, driven by his emotions and not his head. No matter how often he tries to convince himself its judgement that guides his actions, his sole motivator has always been passion.”

And panic.

Please let that panic set in now, before it was too late.

Jaina nodded, though Uther got the impression she might have nodded regardless of what he said. Her thoughts were a miles away, still caught at the gates of Stratholme, and Uther thought it probable they were both still thinking the same thing.

_He would have turned back by now. He had to have._

Arthas Menethil wouldn’t really raze a city. He wouldn’t really kill everyone, with his own clumsy hands. He was prone to believing his own path was always the right one, but surely, he would be stilled by unguarded women, and elderly folks, and babies sleeping peacefully in their cribs? Being so single minded didn’t make him evil, and Uther hoped so desperately that it wouldn’t make him capable of evil things. But oh.

A terrible possibility began to unfurl in Uther's mind, a seed of dark knowing that came from the same place as a memory, not his own memory, that he had stumbled into long ago. He remembered snow. A collision. And blood.

So much blood.

Arthas would do _anything_ to protect the people who looked up to him, out of his misplaced fear of letting them down, but with Jaina and Uther walking away, who would protect the protector, now?

…6…

Another tent.

Uther was so tired of tents.

But he was thankful that he had Arthas to keep him company.

Arthas could be amicable at the end of a successful day, having taken wine, and fulfilled his peculiar desire to conquer. Uther was his servant, as ever, and he felt bolstered by Arthas’ success. Once the sun had set and it was time to strip his armour, there was a pleasant sense of righteousness that set in his marrow.

Uther was proud of him. Proud of the paladin his favourite charge had become.

Uther sat down on the edge of his cot, setting his libram to rest on the chest at the end. Arthas stood in the corner and stripped himself bare, and he stood with the confidence of someone who thought he had done a just thing on this day. Uther found his eyes drawn to him, like this, and idly he watched as Arthas slipped his tunic off his shoulders. His hair fell in a shining curtain, cut bluntly at his waist, and the shimmer of it in the lamplight really was quite stunning. It reminded Uther of the sunlight in a cathedral.

“You did well today,” Uther said, thinking even as he said it that perhaps it wasn’t wise to stroke his ego too much. He could still do something wrong, yet, but Uther did find it heartening to see that the talk the two of them had shared at Hallows end seemed to have instilled him with serenity. Uther was honored by it, and glad that even in his ignorance in the moment the wisdom of the light had guided his tongue. Arthas hummed, and turned to face him, and the wry curl at the corners of his mouth gave his eyes a distinct sense of smugness.

“Say that again, Uther,” He said, bending to rummage through his chest of belongings for a fresh shirt, and a hair comb. “I didn’t hear properly.”

“I think you did.”

“Well maybe I want to hear it again,” He said, devilish grin spreading over his face as he erected himself, and swept his hair back, over his shoulder.

“… You did well today,” Uther acquiesced, his grip on his sensibilities a little more haphazard than usual. He honestly just wanted to see Arthas revel in the praise. The prince really was quite compelling, in the immediate afterglow of battle, and his usual refined charisma had taken on a certain... glittering.

“I had a good teacher, in the art of battle,” He replied, and it was probably the closest Uther would ever get to hearing a compliment from his lips.

“You mean Muradin?” he teased, testing to see if he would yield further. Arthas arched a sardonic eyebrow.

“Muradin who?”

Obstinate boy.

Uther let a smile curve his lips, and he kept his eyes trained on his charge as he swayed near and dropped down beside him on the cot. Wordlessly, Arthas offered Uther the comb he had clutched in his hand. His eyes flicked between the tool, and Uther's face. It was obvious what he was asking. Uther would willingly oblige such a task, but he made a point of looking put upon regardless. He was a paladin, not a servant of the bedchambers.

“Laziness is a vice, Arthas. Do it yourself.”

“I need you to braid it for me before I sleep. I can’t reach.”

Uther sighed. It _was_ getting dreadfully long, but he refused to let Uther cut it with a dagger or a sword. Most often he slept with it loose, and woke up entangled in the mornings, but sometimes he could convince Uther to braid it for him instead.

Uther knew he should probably tell him to learn to do it on his own, but honestly?

He liked it. He didn’t want to stop.

Uther stripped his gauntlets, and took the comb. He began his work, with the same solemn integrity he dedicated to all tasks he performed. It was strange, still, to touch him as intimately as this – the closeness of sparring and the closeness of grooming was vastly different, particularly for a man who had rarely known the touch of anyone else. Arthas was broad of shoulder, and his hair was soft. After bathing quickly in a river as they walked back to camp, he bore a scent that was green with youth, but clean and idyllic. It reminded Uther of springtime grasses, peaking buds from beneath a layer of freshly fallen snow.

Arthas relaxed into his touch, letting his head fall forward as Uther parted his hair and pushed it to the front, over his shoulders. The movement bared the back of a pale neck, rarely ever touched by the sun. Uther's combing motions faltered. The skin there, a window of nudity, was nearly transparent and perfectly smooth. A strange thought occurred to him, thin and tentative. Curiosity moved his hand before he could even stop himself – he stroked the pads of two fingers over Arthas’ nape, and hesitated, to see if he noticed.

It looked like he did.

Arthas froze for a moment, his body stiffening, before he sighed hunched his shoulders in an invitation to touch him there again. Uther's pulse tripped for a moment, and he stumbled on what he was supposed to do next. He caressed the same place again, more deliberately this time, and like a puppet whose strings had been cut Arthas slumped limply backwards, against Uther’s shoulder.

“Shit,” He murmured. “That feels nice.”

“Does it?”

“Don’t stop.”

Uther didn’t intend to. He could feel the nape of his own neck prickling, his cheeks beginning to warm from a heat that was not the product of the oil lamp. Arthas sighed, and turned his head, just enough that he could regard Uther thoughtfully from the corner of his eye.

“Do you like it?” he asked, quite unexpectedly.

“What?”

The question was startling. He hesitated his kneading the back of Arthas’ pretty neck.

“Do you like this kind of life? This war and strategy?”

“Oh,” Uther relaxed, glad he had misunderstood what he was asking. He didn’t have to think hard about the answer. “No, not at all. Why?”

“I do,” he said pleasantly. “But at times, I also hate it. It’s a good way for me to feel like I am doing something worthwhile, but I find the strife can be very... intense. Particularly in a legion of equally convicted men. The emotions of battle, though, I can understand better than the soft emotions of court.”

“And of church?”

Arthas laughed at this.

“Church lacks the same camaraderie,” He laughed. “The sweat. The adrenaline. The power.”

His gaze lingered for a long time, then, locked on Uther's own. He could see something dark and lusty churning there, the same glint he saw in those eyes when Arthas was practicing combat, or galloping on a mount, and it was not unlike his fury except the burden of the battlefield had honed it now into something far less impudent. Uther felt a lump rise in his throat. He thought perhaps he _did_ understand, what Arthas was talking about. At least in so far as the compulsion towards sweat, and adrenaline, and then towards bare skin. Towards sweet smelling hair, and a dark, pillowed mouth, and a body that was hot and smelled like all the sins that Uther had repressed for so long and

_Oh._

Sin, it seemed, was a dark current. A shadowed stream of memory that chased him through the forests of his mind and over the terrain of his flesh. He felt the wave loom over him, a cusp, an event horizon, and then he felt nothing at all because Arthas twisted around with great suddenness, and kissed him.

He kissed like how he fought, sloppy and hectic and with far too many teeth, and yet it touched Uther deeper than he would have ever thought possible. Arthas moved to straddle his lap, his kisses turning to messy bites that made Uther feel like he was being eaten alive. He twisted a fist in a rope of long blonde hair, and pulled just hard enough to make Arthas groan into his mouth. Uther had never kissed someone before, it had never been something he cared to try - not because he wasna man who never felt desire but because he was a man who knew discipline far too well. So many cold showers. So many rose thorns pressed into his palms. Kissing Arthas, though, was as abhorrent as it was wonderful – it transcended the good, and the evil that had defined his life until now. It echoed of something larger, some greater purpose, his role in it.

A divine river of purpose, flowing through the tributaries of his life.

Arthas broke away from him with a deep, sucking breath, and almost fell backwards as he scrambled to his knees, on the floor by the side of the cot. Uther let him push his legs open, let him untie the laces of his breeches before he could even ask what he was doing. Arthas glanced up at him, from beneath pale lashes. His eyes were mesmerizing, vibrant with an impious brightness.

Uther swallowed his heart, which had moved to hammer in the back of his throat, and dropped a shaking hand on the young man’s head as though he were giving him a blessing. Arthas went down easily. Eagerly. Uther's body ignited, tindered by the heat of his mouth. His legs tensed, his toes curled in his boots, and a low groan of pleasure slipped from his lips, into the night. In his blurring vision, the lamplight flared, searing his eyes so hotly he needed to close them.

It was good.

So very good.

And he couldn’t recall what they had been talking about, couldn’t recall why this was making his cheeks flush and his palms sweaty like he was doing something he should have never, ever tried. Powerlessly he dropped backwards against the mattress, and let himself forget everything except that mouth.

**…7…**

“Lift it with your legs, boy, not your shoulders.”

“I can hardly lift it with my whole body – it weighs more than I do!”

“Like that’s hard.”

Arthas glared at him, cheeks flushed in anger, and the strain of his training. For a seventeen-year-old, Arthas was weedy and slight - he might have passed for twelve from a distance and indeed, the hammer he wielded was more than half his size. His will, however, was strong, and Uther could tell that though he was no prodigy he would easily be passable. If only he would learn to fight with his head, and not his temper.

Uther just didn’t understand. Arthas was so steadfast and stubborn in daily life, but in combat he tended to favour light footed quickness, a lithe jump and a twist of his shoulders that was virtually impossible with a hefty mace clutched in his hand. When they fought with foils, Arthas dated and arced and flowed like liquid, and though he was terrible Uther still struggled to keep up with his pacing. He appreciated it, though, albeit reluctantly. There was something vaguely impressive about the way he threw his entire body into his angry, sudden thrusts, many of them so forceful it splayed his hair behind him like holy fire. Even the way he stumbled was astonishing – Uther had never had a student so unbridled, and utterly reckless before. But he knew he couldn’t say it, lest Arthas get the wrong idea and think he should continue being so...

Unmanageable.

“You are unfocused.” Uther told him instead, emulating the correct stance with his own weapon, though typically he preferred to wield one-handed. Arthas didn’t have the upper body strength for that, and had yet to develop the kind of light-mastery which would carry the weight for him. Uther had thought that particular skill would come, with time, but in fact Arthas’ practical skills were advancing faster than his spiritual ones. That was in its own way concerning, but a worry for another day.

“Your stance is unsteady, and fragmented,” Uther continued. “Your movements branch out too much, like becks of water spreading across flat land. You need to consolidate your strength, your muscle control, and learn to move steadily and surely and true.”

He demonstrated, miming an advance, and then an attack, and Arthas did not flinch as Uther brought his hammer to a stop mere inches from the side of his face.

“Maybe there is value in taking the enemy by surprise,” the prince argued, more to be petulant than because he really believed what he was saying. “In being unpredictable.”

“There is little conviction in it though, is there?” Uther dropped his hammer back to his side. He realised as they stood and regarded each other, that Arthas’ eyes were now level with his own. When had that happened? “And you will exhaust yourself too quickly. An onslaught of sudden, unanticipated attacks might disorientate an enemy at first, but if you can find some self-control you will realise that steady flowing water can cut even the hardest stone.”

**…8…**

Uther had dreamed of this moment.

Or maybe he had simply thought about it, so many times that it felt unreal, as it unfolded and the line between his worst fears and reality began to blur to nothing.

It hurt, that Arthas did not seek to kill him for the sake of his death, but instead only wanted the goods he protected. Even now, Uther was an afterthought to him – an inconsequential figure. A ghost. Uther had thought he was more than that? Perhaps not anymore. Perhaps not ever. Uther knew though, the moment he heard word of the Death Knight nearing their party, what he was here for.

The urn that held his father's ashes, but not the hands that bore it. How heartless. Devoid of any sentiment at all. A human once, Terenas was now nothing but dirt. A human once, Arthas was now a walking corpse.

Maybe he always had been.

It felt like a lifetime had passed, since Uther had laid eyes on him – he hadn’t been present that day when Arthas returned from the north. It was unsettling how familiar he was, on his approach. Uther had struggled to reconcile the death of the king and the hand that did it, with the hand that had clasped his jaw to draw him close for a kiss. He had struggled to map the blind spots, between the handsome, arrogant man he knew, and the monster that stood before him now. It was unsettling, to find that standing face to face with him, that the bridge between those two things was contained in this person so seamlessly. It was uncanny. He had the same face. The same posture. Even the same lazy grin. The wildness in his eyes was fierce and bright, but Uther had seen the same intensity in them countless times before. The hair that he had stroked so lovingly was lighter now, like snow, and the aura which rolled off him was cold. It chilled Uther to the bone.

He wondered fleetingly, if things came down to it, would he be able to kill this man? Would he be able to shatter him, and deal a merciful blow? As he raised his hammer though, he knew he would have to. He knew he would die, if he didn’t.

Did Arthas think the same thing? Or did he still possess the same stubborn cockiness that had always gotten him in to trouble? Arthas was never good at considering outcomes other than the ones he had expected. Many called it confidence, but Uther still thought it folly. Folly that only served to make him look powerful, when he didn’t lose.

When they gave over to combat, Uther was quick to notice that Arthas still struggled with the marks of a novice, though his weapon carried his skill to heights that Uther had never had the misfortune to witness before. Their fight was evenly matched, until it wasn’t, and as the young man faltered under his onslaught Uther knew the moment was nearing. The moment he would be called to kill the body that had pressed against his own so needily, and swallowed his deepest secrets like sparks or stars snuffed out under a cloak of the night.

Yet somehow, even under all his might, Arthas did not fall. Arthas did not fall, but _Uther_ did. The light did not fail him, but his resolution waivered. His mind caught like a foot on a root in the shadow of an ancient tree. Even as he felt it, Uther knew shame, because the thought that felled him was spurred by bitterness. By the pain of betrayal.

_I hope there is a special place for you in hell._

What is hell to a monster, anyway? Where was the worst place a man like this might go?

Arthas’ personal hell had always been a throne.

Death, it seemed, was painful. The worst kind of pain. Uther felt like his very molecules were being torn asunder by the bite of the blade, by the ferocity meted out by a sorely beloved hand. No human body was built to encompass the battle that raged within his flesh, the violent bitter breaking where the light fought just as fiercely as the darkness for whatever scraps of soul it could get. He was half a man. Twice a man. The wound on his breast felt like nothing, a dull ache, compared to the searing rip of weft and weave and the deconstruction of all the memories that had ever made him a person.

Uther wasn’t sure of much, but he knew he was dead. He knew this even before his body slumped heavy against the cold earth, and his blood leached into the dirt and left him there, in empty space. Even the light was harsh, and greedy, as it clawed at his shards and pulled them away while the other parts of himself withered and disappeared into the dark. The brightness was blinding. The sudden rush of being disembodied sent him reeling. Uther found himself surfacing in a strange white ocean, where there was nothing and there was everything and all the moments of his life played like distorted reflections in water or in dreams. Uther remembered broken glass. Cracked ice. He remembered refracted light casting angelic glitter, on a crown of hair that was whiter than snow.

Wait, no, that wasn’t right.

_Gold._

Ozone and thin air flooded his palate. Why was he breathing? He lurched upright, opened his eyes, but his body was cold and smooth like alabaster and a strange shadow loomed over his psyche. Instinctively, Uther brought his hand up to press against his chest. He touched the jagged edges, traced the contours of treachery burning there.

His breath came regular now. Easy, fresh. The pain was gone, and a bleeding numbness fizzled through his extremities. It was an exaltation. A sigh. His mind caught, on that memory.

A shaft of sunlight.

White hair.

White hair.

 _Golden_ hair, he told himself. But no, wait.

White. White. Only white. So white it was an illusion, so clear it was like the dawn reflecting off a tundra. A memory surfaced. The same one. Golden hair. A sword glowing blue a fist of ice and a crown that was white, white, white. Like the blinding brightness of staring directly into the sun.

And then, a current. A hand on his lips. A cool thigh pressed between his, and hair that slipped like silk over his chest which was gaping, and hollow. Arthas moaned for him, long and sweet, and Uther kissed him and for a moment there was nothing but bliss.

Oblivion.

And then, he was in a field of radiance. Everything was quiet.

And Devos came.

…9…

The water was churning, not by the current or the draw of sea, but under the imputes of bodies coiled around each other like weeds on outcrops of rock. The evening was warm, sunset giving the air a glassy, honeyed glow, and the river was cool and cleansing against hot skin, sore joints, the fever of yet another a hard-won battle. Arthas clung to him, hair wet and sticky and freshly washed, and somehow an offer to heal a gaping gash over his shoulder had turned to fingertips pushing bruises into the muscles on his back.

This was how it always was though - Uther wasn’t sure why he was still so surprised. It was always strange, always frantic. Harrowing, and divine. The contrast of cold water, a hot body, of wet stone and the green scent of the woods, was abrasive on his senses in the way that made him numb with overload, but still he lost himself in the act again and again only to forget it when they were no longer alone. Arthas yielded easily to his weight, let himself move with the same fluidity he fought with, let his voice bristle in the same way his countenance did when he was challenged in combat. His breath came in short gasps, wordless pleas for help to bear the agony of pleasure. It made Uther's skin prickle. It was like killing a man. Slaughter was an act he had never felt any great satisfaction in, but there was something righteous about killing a man who knelt and drew the blade to his own throat.

 _Surcease_ it said, in some language older than human tongues, _mercy for the merciless._

Mercy for a prince whose body ached under the burden of a crown, mercy for a stable boy who felt nothing except in the company of horses and straw. Mercy for a child who stole food from the table of servants, and mercy for the graceless paladin, bearer of the light, who took the mantle knowing he felt no love for it really.

Or maybe who lost his love along the way.

Which one was Uther, again?

Arthas trembled, silent crying in the aftermath, but they weren't tears of sorrow so much as tears of relief. He allowed Uther to heal the scratches on his back, to relieve him of the indexes of pilgrimage that blunt nails took up the insides of his thighs. The clear mountain water soaked into his hair, washed off the day, and as the sun sunk and the light became silver, Arthas slumped back against Uther's chest so they could sit comfortably a little longer, in silence. Surely, it had passed the hour where they should have eaten? Surely, soldiers would come and look for their prince soon? Somehow, though, the evening went on and no one came, and the water took on a sharp chill like frost that Uther could feel sinking into his core. 

“Uther,” Arthas asked him, after a while, his voice low and blossoming in the night. “Do you also love me?”

Uther didn’t understand the question.

“You are my duty, boy,” He replied. “My purpose. My vocation.”

Arthas scoffed.

“A tactful answer,” He brooded. “Do you love me more than your light? More than your dignity? Will your love keep me warm, even in my grave?”

 _No more than Jaina’s,_ Uther thought. _No more than your fathers, or that of your men._

But Uther knew, would swear by the light, that he would always love Arthas Menethil. Uther swore to himself that he would love him, until all that remained of him was bones.

**…10…**

It was a rare, tranquil afternoon.

Sunlight poured in shafts of gold through the wooden slats that covered the windows. The horses in their stalls made quiet noises of health, and contentedness. The straw underfoot smelled as though it was freshly replaced, and sure enough when Uther edged into the stables he found a youth in simple clothes mucking out the last stall, at the back.

“Arthas?”

“Hm?”

Arthas erected himself, and swung around to look at him. His hair swished over his shoulder, buttercup yellow against a thin cream tunic, and Uther's eyes gravitated to the sliver of skin visible beneath his neckline. It was reddened from riding without armour in the height of the midday sun.

“You have a burn,” Uther said, gesturing to his own collarbone in sympathy.

“Do I?” Arthas’ pale brows creased, and he pushed his chest forward to try and check, but the angle did not facilitate such an inspection. Uther felt the corners of his lips turn upwards. Arthas was a powerful man, with great status, but dressed in linen and sweaty and flushed, this wasn’t very obvious at all. Uther thought that actually, in this moment, he could have also been a stable boy, or a youth from the villages. Maybe the son of a fruit seller, from the orchards that thrived further south. Pared down, he looked smaller than he did in his stately attire, and he might have even passed for humble were he not so completely beautiful to look upon.

“I don’t see it,” He said dismissively, before returning his attention to his forking.

“You’ll feel it soon,” Uther warned, but he stopped short of offering to heal it for him. He would figure it out in his own time, and perhaps there would even be wry amusement to be had when he winced and bemoaned the struggle of taking on his pauldrons in the morning.

“What do you want?” the prince asked bluntly, and Uther let the peacefulness hang there for a moment longer, before he responded.

“You missed lunch,” he answered eventually. “The men asked after you. And now, you are late for afternoon prayer.”

However thankful the peasants of these lands might have been, to have their future king muck their stables, Uther knew it was hardly appropriate for Arthas to be shirking his other commitments to do play with horses throughout their campaign. Orc numbers were dwindling, and camps were becoming rarer to find, but that only made it more imperative that Arthas maintained his mantle of decency before his subjects and his men. If this small war drew to a close, and Arthas did prove victorious in the end, then he would come out of it all on such grand footing that people might stop wondering, why a prince of nearly twenty-seven was still, as yet, unmarried.

Arthas laughed harshly at the notion he should go to prayer, as he always had.

“I’m not a child, Uther. No need to scold me.”

“You have a duty to be partaking in devotions, even as we are in the field.”

“You know my devotions better than anyone, and if you don’t mind I’d prefer to keep them private.”

Arthas righted himself again, and set down the pitchfork against the back wall of the stable. Uther watched him as he peeled off the soft leather gloves he wore, to protect his hands, and wandered across the space to close the gap between them. Once he was close enough, Uther reached up to hook a lock of hair back behind his ear. It was a reassuring touch, and a familiar one, that came as naturally as water flowed down a slope. Arthas’ lips were dark, and full, and from this close, Uther could see he had freckles dusting the tip of his nose. It wasn’t often Arthas was this close to him, in the daytime, and he was just as lovely in sunlight as he was in the dark.

It made Uther’s heart ache.

“There's a dignity in keeping up appearances, Arthas. A duty, even.”

“Keeping appearances?” Arthas sneered, folding his arms like a bulwark across his chest. “Keeping appearances is to meet with dignitaries, and to take a wife, and to sire offspring I feel no want for like a prize mare births a foal for its master. Must I also kneel in prayer every Friday afternoon for the rest of my life?”

“You are reluctant to do any of those things, I well know, but they are your charge as your people are your charge. Perhaps if you don’t like it, you should have been a stable boy after all.”

Arthas gave him a cool smile, but his eyes smoldered with a strange, dark light that sent a quiet thrill through Uther’s blood. The primal, antediluvian part of his soul could sense that this was a dangerous part of his nature, much like his recklessness and hubris, but the sensible part of himself wrestled it down again, into submission.

Arthas was just a young man. A good one, albeit idealistic and stubborn. He was clad in blessings of glory, and in blessings of might, even if he _did_ have his foibles.

“More reluctant to do some, than the others.” Arthas mused, and his eyes drilled hard into Uther’s face. “Though I’ll admit, this request that has summoned me to escort Jaina next week? It has had me thinking quite intently about life after the orcs are expelled from the land.”

He paused for a moment, looking serious and thoughtful, before continuing.

“Would you release me from prayer today, if I said I was warming to the prospect of a wife?”

Uther couldn’t tell if this was a joke or not. Sometimes, in confidence, Arthas would say things so dry, so outrageous, that it was unclear if he was being honest or trying to be controversial on purpose to test Uther’s restraint. Uther was therefore tentative in his response.

“Thats... good news.”

“Not for you?” Arthas’ brow arched, knowingly. Uther shrugged.

“Whatever makes you happy, Arthas, is the thing I want you to do.”

It was true. The prospect of Arthas marrying had never stung him, because it had always been such a certainty. There was no point in feeling strife over certainties, thought Uther, when all that energy could instead be directed to things that _could_ be changed.

Arthas’s eyes narrowed, though, as if this response took him a moment to register and process. A faint flush rose in his cheeks, and unable to cope with the tenderness of his honestly Arthas huffed, and turned away.

“All this fighting only increases the sense of duty I feel hanging over me,” he elaborated, without being prompted. Whether or not he was trying to justify his thoughts to Uther, or to himself, seemed irrelevant. “Every day I become more conscious of the fact that I might die in service to this land, and leave no heir to take my place. Who would guard Lordaeron then? Not Calia? Not you? My father grows older every day. I wonder if maybe time and stability will allow for love to take root in my heart after all?”

“You have a heart?” It was Uther’s turn to arch his eyebrows. Arthas gave him a frosty look.

“Like a horse,” he said bluntly, “A raging stallion.”

“A raging stallion?” Uther found the word choice curious. “Your fortunate wife. Will you love her with a raging stallion’s body, too?”

“Very funny.” Arthas regarded him for a moment, jaw tensed, before he sighed and let himself slump forward against Uther’s chest. He smelled unwashed, and his clothes were covered in dust and horse shit, but Uther, for some reason, didn’t mind all that much. “I can take a woman, Uther. I’ve done it before, remember?”

“Something I am glad of, because I hardly think I’m qualified to explain it to you.”

This actually earned a short, sharp laugh. They stood together in silence like this for a little longer, and Uther felt strange just standing with his arms at his side so he raised them, to pull the prince into a proper embrace. The shafts of sunlight moved in an arc across the floor of the stables. The horses in the stalls huffed quietly, and snorted. It was such a profound moment of peace that Uther hoped it would last like this, forever. He tried to drink in the details, tried to imprint them eternally on his mind. He knew it might be some time, before the two of them could be alone again - Uther and a small band of paladins and soldiers would be splitting from the group to scout a small and overlooked section of land, come tomorrow. It made him uneasy, but it was what it was - Arthas would have to meet with Jaina, and escort her to investigate rumors of strange magics in the west, alone.

Uther so sorely hated to leave Arthas on his own.

**…11…**

How long had it been?

Uther wasn’t sure. Time flowed strangely here, viscous and sluggish yet simultaneously quick, it felt as though Uther was experiencing all of eternity, and none of eternity, in every moment. He sat by a river, high in the rolling fields of Elysium. The water that flowed through the veins of this realm glittered with light that looked like fragments of fallen stars. His eyes saw more than they ever did in life, they took in everything through a strange distortion that rendered even the details of death in hyperreality. Even so, there were moments Uther sensed the colours at the edge of his vision waiver, and the horizon dropped off into lopsided mystery as he sat, and contemplated the flow of time.

It might have been seconds he sat there, and it might have been eons, but at some stage the stars overhead began to shift and a blooming orb of light would swell on the horizon to ascend the sky. Devos would come and go, and so would others, but Uther always found himself back here by the river staring into the brightness and finding himself blinded by how bright it was. When he blinked, though, he could see a dark shape imprinted on the inside of his eyelids. The shape of a young man, whose hair glinted with the same brightness as the air in the afterlife. Ethereal. Radiant. Pure.

Uther couldn’t see his face, but he recognized the shape of him, and he could feel his molecules vibrate in the pattern he had somehow imprinted there. Uther’s cellular structure felt strangely warped, around that dark spot in his mind, and when he opened his eyes again he could not see it but every thread of his being could sense it there - a man shaped hole forged into his very soul. It was a memory he clung to even though he knew he shouldn’t. It was a memory that came to him in cycles, some days more vividly than others. Eventually it surfaced and lingered for longer, at the forefront of his mind.

How long had it been, since he had sat by a river in life?

 _Too long,_ Uther thought. _Too long, and yet not long enough._

Uther closed his eyes, brought a hand to press against the gaping wound that shattered the terrain of his breastbone.

He tried with all his strength to remember his name.

**Author's Note:**

> now thats over with i can go back to writing pornography for free on the internet. sorry about the spelling and grammar issues lol. stay pony golden boys 
> 
> xoxo   
> Your friend garf


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